


see appendix d

by Woodswolf



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Memories, Stream of Consciousness, Violent Thoughts, mmm boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodswolf/pseuds/Woodswolf
Summary: Sources, references, citations… If the course of history is a textbook, then they’re nothing more than footnotes.So is he.





	see appendix d

Sometimes, he wonders what it means to be remembered.

Memory is a finicky thing; he knows this. He would know it better than anyone – he’s created and destroyed _decades_ worth of information. Those earliest days, those grand experiments, the great successes, the catastrophic failures, the isolation, the loneliness, the attempts at repentance. He’s seen them all, known them all; and he’s destroyed them all with nothing more than the flick of a switch or the smallest sparks of a lighter.

And now – now – he’s the last person to hold some of these memories. Now, he’s the last person to know what happened before.

And he has no desire to tell.

Because what does it mean to be remembered? He wonders that often, almost on a daily basis now. What does it mean to leave a legacy?

Once upon a time, he thought he knew. He thought it was to leave a piece of yourself with others: some part you want them never to forget. Something you feel you _need_ to be remembered for – whether it’s a single kindness or a vast, unending love.

People think that that’s the point of a legacy because they don’t know better. But he does. He knows better because he’s _seen_ his legacy – he’s seen it with his own two eyes, heard it with his own two ears, felt it with his own two hands.

_You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves._

Legacies are tiny lies wrapped in hidden truths, tied together with subtle wisdoms and carried with invisible philosophies.

And it _hurts._ It digs into his spine like a barbed wire being dragged back and forth across his back, sawing through his flesh slowly, slowly, slowly, so agonizingly _slowly_ that he just can’t take it. It’s more painful than any of the physical harm he’s ever endured in his entire life, and that’s an impressive list by itself. This new pain – this _legacy_ – is second only to when he nearly lost his mind from the isolation, when his entire world shattered, when it splintered into glass shards with cutting edges sharper than knives, and when he was left to pick up the pieces.

Legacies fade with time as people grow to forget. Parents and grandparents turn into ancestors long gone, with faces and names that no one remembers, or even acknowledges to exist. Legacies are quiet and unassuming, which is why they _hurt_ – they remind him of how very _small_ he is, in the grand scheme of things. A single dust particle in a sandstorm.

He might not have feared death before, or at least had accepted it enough to welcome it at the end – but he does now. He fears death now more than he can ever remember, because he’s stared it in the face and lived to tell the tale.

And now he’s at a crossroads. His options are limited now, more than they’ve ever been before, and it can only come down to one of two possibilities.

So he considers again: is it better to die a hero, or live long enough to become a villain?

He thinks about history. History is written by the victors, and the victors write about those whom they were victorious against. The “good” writes about the downfall of the “evil”.

His history – his legacy – has already been written. _You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves._ He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want that to be the end. He wants this to be remembered, too: all this suffering and loss and pain he’s had to go through, pain he hasn’t deserved on top of all the pain from before.

He’s out of options, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

And so he sits at the crossroads, gazing down the two parallel paths – fading into obscurity, to remain in quiet isolation forever: to close the book and write himself off as nothing more than a footnote. Or the violent path, the one of bloodshed and fire and screaming in the night, of teeth and claws and vengeance and retaliation and blinding _rage._

But he can’t sit still forever.

_You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves._

So he makes his choice.

_But I wasn’t._

**Author's Note:**

> anyway ninjago decoded fuckin uhhh fucked me up yall :)
> 
> you may be wondering: what does this have to do with that shit? everything and nothing bc as it turns out im an edgy petty bitch
> 
> anyway [sphor's art](http://birchwoodswolf.tumblr.com/post/167919681509/sphor-art-so-decoded-really-fucked-me-up) is such a huge fucking mood and 99% of the reason i wrote this thank u and goodbye,


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